![]() ![]() ![]() To be sure, the first half of the book, the first of its three sections, belongs to Luswage Amini. Where last year's Event Factory was the travel narrative of a single tourist, The Ravickians is the assemblage of half-a-dozen or more consciousnesses, their stray thoughts, memories, poems, and conversations. So begins The Ravickians, Renee Gladman's second meditation on the human-nature of architecture. So, indeed, why leave the house? Because ZĂ oter Limici, her old friend, will be reading from his new book of poems at Vonzy Hall, and Ana Patova, her long-time, almost-lover will be there. Every sound must cross a field of silence. The buildings stand but they're locked, no one home. Though the trains and busses run, they're empty. Ravicka, Luswage's home for all of her fifty-five years, has lost nearly a million of its citizens. Dripping cream in cup after cup of coffee, burrowed into the Poet of Architecture's new translation, she lives only for the click of the courier's bicycle, and who could blame her? Outside, Nothing accumulates. Ravicka's great novelist, Luswage Amini, hasn't left home in a week. ![]()
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